Lawrence Shankland's journey at Hampden Park mirrored Scotland's own arc on a day when the stakes felt impossibly high. For an hour, the Rangers striker inhabited the margins—dropping deep, running wide, a support act for George Hirst. Then, with ten men finally forced upon Curacao, Shankland pushed into the spaces where he belongs. Two chances. Two beautiful finishes. A 4-1 victory that transformed a nervous afternoon into something altogether more palatable.
That transformation matters, because Scotland departs for the United States on Sunday to face a World Cup campaign weighted with unfinished business. Two years ago in Germany, they left asking what-might-have-been. This time, manager Steve Clarke has something clearer to consider: who should lead the line when everything is on the line? The source of that clarity stood before the Hampden crowd on a day when Curacao's Jurgen Locadio's 38th-minute red card—an elbow on Aaron Hickey—handed Scotland the turning point they desperately needed.
Before Locadio's exit, the stadium sat like a morgue. Curacao, ranked 82nd in the world, had taken the lead and looked genuinely comfortable, powerful and physical enough to trouble Scotland's defence. When the whistle sent the visitors down to ten men, everything shifted. Shankland, finally operating in dangerous positions, made it 2-1. Then 3-1. His 22nd and 23rd goals in his last 37 matches—a run of form that has seen him score in every consecutive run of games, five in five during May, nine in thirteen this year.
Findlay Curtis, the 19-year-old Rangers winger, claimed his own moment of vindication. Introduced just before halftime for the injured Billy Gilmour, the teenager needed three minutes to score—left foot, right foot, goal—a finisher's instinct honed during his recent spell impressing at Kilmarnock. His parents watched from Tenerife, a holiday Curtis was supposed to be joining. Instead, he announced himself as a weapon Scotland might deploy in moments of desperation, a player who walked into a scene of chaos and found calm. He added an assist too, winning the penalty that allowed Ryan Christie to make it four.
Yet the final scoreline carries its own asterisk. When eleven played eleven, Curacao looked like they might hold their own. The 4-1 tells a story shaped by circumstance, by a moment of madness that broke Scotland's resistance. Still, it was a welcome fillip when catastrophe had seemed imminent at 1-0. They left Hampden with a warm reception, reasonable heart, and one more friendly to play—Bolivia in New Jersey next Saturday—before Clarke finalizes his thinking on formation, personnel, and the age-old question now demanding an answer: does Shankland, in the form of his life, finally supersede Che Adams as Scotland's leading striker?
The evidence is overwhelming. Shankland is, by a margin, the most accomplished striker at Clarke's disposal. The timing of his resurgence—fresh, firing, clinical—leaves little room for doubt. Scotland's players are still angry about two years ago, still carrying the weight of regrets. In America, they intend to leave no what-might-have-beens behind. Against that ambition, Shankland's ability to finish in do-or-die moments becomes not a luxury but a necessity.